Yes, I vomited the first time I killed someone and no, it wasn’t some guilt-induced spew.
I had tracked the guy for two days, he had just killed his eighth kid in six months and I was heated. He was hiding in the middle of the Sonoran desert and I caught him taking a piss outside the R.V.
I came up over the ridge at almost two hundred miles an hour, about six feet off the ground. The punch was ugly, but at that speed the only qualifier it needed was accuracy.
More or less.
I’d gotten into the habit of keeping my mouth shut while flying after learning that locust swarm tastes like pickles and I fucking hate pickles. But my adrenaline was redlined and I felt like a warrior-god at that point. Like Zeus had chained Conan to Rambo and thrown them at an opposing army. So naturally I let out my best Green Beret-barbarian yodel at the moment of truth.
Something you might not know about flying is that it takes a bit of concentration. Not the level of concentration it takes to hit a moving target at two thousand yards. More like the concentration it takes to stop pissing mid-stream until the need to go subsides.
It took a second to realize the blob that had just landed in the back of my throat was a chunk of dead pedophile brain.
I hit the ground vomiting, skidding and rolling through brush and cactus for maybe eighty yards. I sat up, covered in blood and dirt and vomit and cactus spines, my goggles missing a lens and my mouth missing a tooth. The only other thing missing was the Road Runner screeching to a halt and giving be a “Beep Beep!” before taking off again.
Not my finest moment. But I’ve learned quite a bit of finesse since then.